Dreadnought
by Sputnik Writer
Summary: The adventures of the GTD Dreadnought at the far side of the galaxy. Chapter 1-4 updated, chapter 2 updated again! Chapter 5 is here!
1. The Bar

The two men sat across from each other at a table placed to give the best view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The blue glow from the world far below fell softly into the room, far brighter than the bar's own dim lighting. Stars dotted the heavens, filling the whole sky before a diaphanous nebula which hung like a painted backdrop behind it all. Three hundred years ago humanity could only dream of having a such a view, yet the two men sat before it never gave it a second glance.

The older of the two, tall, wiry yet capable, grey hair cut regulation short in a manner which suggested he'd had the same hairstyle most of his life, took a long draught from the glass set before him. Luyten beer, known throughout the galaxy as the drink that fuelled a thousand fights. Of course this didn't worry the drinker, he was no stranger to drunken bar brawls. He never set out to start a fight, they just seemed to happen, at least that was what he told the man sat across from him. The beer he had consumed so far appeared not to have affected his bearing other than giving him a slight hint of perspiration on his forehead and a barely noticeable redness rimming his steely grey eyes.

The other drinker was enjoying something a little less explosive. He sat straight in his seat, the tan uniform he was wearing pressed sharp, the wings on his chest marking him out as a Terran pilot, the several rows of bars below them marking him out as a hero and, more importantly, a survivor. A casual observer would have seen the similarities between the two drinkers, the one in the uniform looking younger, his face less lined, the hair a little longer and jet black with a hint of grey at the temples. Slightly closer examination would have revealed faint scarring on the right side of his face. In the right eye there could occasionally be seen something like iridescence over the grey iris - if the light fell on it right and if viewed from the correct angle - that would bring to mind the rainbow patterns of oil on water.

The casual observer might have taken them for father and son, and a second later had this impression confirmed when the elder spoke.

"Son, it kills me to see you drinking that piss-weak stuff."

The son smiled for a second, his mind clearly elsewhere.

"I don't think newly promoted Lieutenant Commanders are allowed to meet Fleet Admirals smelling of Fight Starter, dad. It might make them regret giving me one of their precious squadrons."

Dad snorted derisorily.

"I remember when 'Fireball' Adams was a snivelling Ensign who managed to crash his crate into the hangar door on his first jag. You shouldn't let too much brass dazzle you. I shudder to think I've raised an arse kisser."

"Given I spent the last two years watching a shipyard from behind a desk, no amount of arse kissing was too great to get me in the air again."

"If you wanted to fly so bad you could've come back to work for me."

Now it was the pilot's turn to snort.

"We've had this discussion before, dad. There are few things worse than flying a desk, and one of them is pounding a fifty-year-old freighter to bits on the Polaris run."

"Oh well if that's how you feel…"

"C'mon dad you know what I mean. I joined up 'cos… Well, y'know." He waved his hands vaguely. This was a well worn argument between the two of them. It never seemed to make sense to the younger man, his father had been a pilot before signing up with the Merchant Fleet. He was a highly decorated veteran of the Great War, he'd seen action across half the galaxy before quitting aged twenty-five and enrolling in the damned Pony Express. He could never grasp how anyone could volunteer to drive what amounted to a glorified target in times of war and a tedious, rusty tugboat the rest of the time. Perpetually puzzled at his father's bloody-mindedness, he pulled a cigarette out a carton in his breast pocket and lit it with a solid silver lighter. Orange flame flared for a second, dancing across the image of a rearing lion embossed on the side of it.

"You don't mind smelling of smoke though."

The pilot gave another brief laugh, smoke blowing around his head.

"Nobody ever got a UTF from smoking too much." He offered another cigarette to his father. "Never stopped you either."

The older man accepted the proffered cigarette with a grunt and lit it with his own lighter.

"Well, these things are the least of your worries when an alien species wants to wipe you out."

"Yeah."

A silence fell. Both sensed this was neither the time nor the place to trade oft-told war stories. They had before, over vast amounts of Luyten's and even more of the potent firewater Dad distilled aboard his own ship. Battles fought, bloody victories and crushing routs. Friends lost… Tears and laughter and roaring tales and the bond those who wore the tan uniform could find nowhere else.

The pilot took a sip of his own drink, mind wandering back to the memories of his war, seeing the same things going on behind his father's eyes. He waited patiently, at times like this, he knew who would be the one to break the silence.

"Huh. Anyway, I can't believe they gave you a squadron in the arse of the galaxy."

They'd had this discussion too.

"Its peacetime Dad, you know as well as I do how slow promotion is." That wasn't the only reason, but it was the only one the pilot was willing to discuss. "I'm bloody lucky to get this posting as it is, so I'm not going to complain even if it is ten thousand light years from anywhere."

"The last survivor of the 70th. The last man out of Capella, The least you could've got is a squadron on a Hecate."

"Nothing wrong with an Orion." The pilot took a hard drag on his cigarette.

"There was nothing wrong with them in the Great War. But that was forty years ago. There is a reason they use Orions to collapse jump nodes."

A ten-year old memory surfaced in the pilot's mind. The two kilometre bulk of the _Bastion_ vanishing in a cataclysmic explosion that had damn near blinded him and obliterated two of his squadmates in a tidal wave of coruscating blue fire. He shook it off, feeling the chill of recollection let go of his spine.

"A squadron's a squadron Dad, I would've taken a posting on a bloody Aten to get out of that office. Besides, four years from now I could be up for ACO somewhere and then I can think about a command of my own. Then you can finally realise your ambition of ramming a Fleet cruiser and not get hung for it."

This wasn't particularly funny, but his father seemed to find this hilarious. He let out a loud laugh, only partially exacerbated by the five pints of Luyten's he had consumed in the last ninety minutes.

"Like I'd wreck the _Franklyn_ just to prove you Fleet boys can't keep station for shit!"

The pilot let out a laugh himself. It was an article of faith in both the military and civilian fleets that their opposite numbers couldn't navigate their way out of a paper bag. Any convoy was always enlivened by talk of how that damned Fleet/bloody Merchies had the station keeping skills of drunken cattle.

The PA boomed into life. Finn Greenash watched his son's hand tighten around the glass he was holding. He very much doubted that anyone else would have noticed, but then again he had known his son for thirty years.

"_NOW HEAR THIS. NOW HEAR THIS. LAST CALL FOR _GTT TRELAWNY_. ALL PERSONNEL FOR _GTT TRELAWNY_ MAKE YOUR WAY TO DOCK TWO. REPEAT, DOCK TWO. THAT IS ALL."_

"That's my ride," the pilot said. Stubbing out his cigarette and finishing his drink in two economical movements, he stood up quickly.

"Break a leg, Kris," Finn said, getting to his feet and sticking out his hand. Lieutenant Commander Kristian "Maverick" Greenash looked at the proffered hand for a beat, then shook it briefly. His father's grip was firm, as always. He used it often, negotiating cargo with the cutthroat merchants of the galaxy's many backwaters.

"I'll do you proud, Dad." He reached down to pick up his kit bag and slung it over one shoulder.

"Yeah, well." Finn looked away for a second and cleared his throat. "Keep in touch. You know what your mother gets like if you don't wave her every day."

"Every day is probably pushing it a bit."

"Keep us posted anyway. I'm never too busy to get a message from the last of the 70th."

_There it is again._

Greenash turned to go.

"No problem, Dad," he said, then left the bar without a word, the cold blue glow of the world below them illuminating his back as he strode off. Finn watched the tall figure until it vanished amongst the crowds of the busy promenade, then drained his beer and got up to order another. He didn't realise it, but that would be the last time he would ever see his son.


	2. Child Of Shiva

Greenash stepped though the hatch of the Elysium transport _Trelawny_, followed a short passageway into the passenger area and found a seat towards the front. Most Elysium's were like this now, rows and rows of uncomfortable steel seating to hold as many cattle-class passengers as possible on their voyage to other worlds. It paid to never forget the GTA never put comfort above expense if it could possibly avoid it.

He shoved his kitbag underneath the seat that was to be his for the next ten hours for the long haul to the Wolf 359 system and the 12th Fleet Headquarters. He sat down, put his head back, and closed his eyes.

_God, I hate transports_.

In a fighter, you could fight back, and if worse came to the worse, you could get out of the way. Sat on a transport, however, gave him the creeps. He tried not to think of those convoys in the war, those men sitting there like paralysed ducks just waiting for the bang. That was one of the reasons why he would never go back to work for his father on the ancient _GTFr Franklyn_.

Never mind the GTVA had been at peace for ten years. A sitting duck was still a sitting duck in war or in peacetime.

The PA system chimed into life, and the pilot's voice, slightly distorted by static, rang out.

"This is Ensign Laszlo, we depart for Wolf 359 in three minutes. All crew begin final pre-flight checks. Out."

_Final pre-flight checks. On a crate with rockets. Yeah right._ Greenash had test-flown the new, two billion credit Erebus stealth bomber during his time at Subach-Innes. An old wingman from his time with the 64th Raptors had left the service and was getting soft as a civvy behind a desk at Nankam Aeronautics had taken advantage of the close links between the two corporations, calling in Greenash to give the Erebus prototype a thorough workout. Kris has jumped at the chance, anything to break the monotony of reviewing mind-numbing weapons specs for up to twelve hours a day.

_Now that, that had needed pre-flight checks._ Nearly half an hours worth in fact. Never mind that he had nearly died in the Erebus - when the prototype's stealth capability had been proved all too well as a Deimos corvette had totally failed to notice the bomber on its sensors and nearly run Greenash down - it had nothing to do with the design.

He was busily grumbling to himself in this manner when he was aware of a kitbag thumping down to the deck next to him. He opened one eye to look and saw another pilot sitting down beside him. He opened his other eye when he realised that the pilot was female and attractive enough to merit a proper look. Intra-pilot relations were frowned upon in the military but it couldn't stop a man from dreaming.

Trying not to make it obvious his eyes took in the short brown hair tied back in the sensible ponytail, the slim face with the intense, dark gaze, the short, lean figure. Worth a second glance, he thought, she somehow managed to overcome the obvious anti-sex appeal of the tan GTVA uniform and trip several switches in his inner caveman.

The second glance revealed the two pips designating the rank of Lieutenant, the pilot wings, the impressive row of medal bars including NTF Victory Star, the Nebula Victory Star and the DFC and bar. He was surprised. She barely looked old enough to have suited up for the last war, never mind fly through most of it.

The memory of his own twenty-year old self jumping out of Capella ten seconds ahead of the supernova shockwave surfaced unbidden in his mind, as it often did. He shook it off and took out another cigarette and lit it with the swiftness and economy of a true nicotine addict. _Bad times_.

A voice from next to him interrupted his dark thoughts.

"Got a light, sir?"

Greenash read the nametag. _Marin_. The accent was pure Aquilae; deliberate and precise.

"Sure." He flicked open the lighter beneath the cigarette Marin had placed between her lips. The light flared again over the rearing lion. If she noticed this memorial to the darkest day of his life, she didn't say anything. He had to remind himself that the 70th weren't the only squadron wiped out in those dark days of the Second Shivan Incursion. But then again, they were the only squadron wiped out with _him_ in it.

Marin took a drag on the cigarette and blew out a plume of blue smoke.

"So where you headed?" Greenash asked, realising it was his duty as senior officer to get the conversation going.

"Wolf 359, sir. I'm being posted to the _Dreadnought_ from Deneb."

"What squadron?"

"39th Tyrants Heavy Assault."

_Sometimes_, Greenash thought,_ coincidences can be the nicest things_. He jammed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and stuck out a hand.

"Pleased to meet you," he said. "Lieutenant Commander Kris Greenash, new commanding officer of the 39th Tyrants Heavy Assault Squadron."

Marin took his hand and shook it.

"_Lef-_tenant Jeni Marin. Good to meet you too, sir. What takes you to the far side of the galaxy?"

"First posting after two years R&D at Subach-Innes."

"Sounds like hell," Marin replied. Greenash was happy to see how ready she was to abandon formality in exchange for friendliness. They were both moving from posts in the central systems to a station in the backwaters of GTVA territory. From what he heard from officers who had similar assignments, discipline was a bit looser so far from the rigid bureaucracy of the Security Council. It was quite hard to forge anything more than cordial relationships with a bunch of miners and frontier colonists, so out on the edge of space you had to make friends where you could.

"I can't pretend it was what I signed up for. Reading tech-specs for fourteen hours a day doesn't exactly compare with blasting a cruiser into the next life. But you gotta serve your time on the way up the ladder."

"Oh, you're looking to be future Fleet Marshal, then?" This question was delivered with a hint of humour, but Greenash could spot a question within a question. His subordinate was probing gently to make sure that the 39th weren't just another, brief irritating step on his march to power. It wasn't, he could never treat a command in such a manner, but every pilot had had at one point or another, a superior officer who would much rather have some nice comfortable billet far from the front lines in some quiet, warm office.

"Not for a while yet," he replied. "So what gives us the pleasure of your company?"

"You don't know sir? Haven't you read my personnel file yet?"

"Command, in their wisdom, decided to have the squadron's files waiting for me on the _Dreadnought_. I haven't seen them yet. This whole thing has gone through so fast I've not had any prep time."

"You do know we fly Herc Twos, right?"

"Hah, yes. I managed to catch up with our battle record when I got the posting. It's a fairly impressive read. The 39th weren't always stuck at the far end of the galaxy. In fact they were based at Vega until they lost eighty percent of their pilots in Capella and Command decided to pull them off the front line, and they've never gone back."

Greenash looked at Marin's expression. It said, _Yessir, I read the briefing too, Sir_, but that was one thing you could never say to a superior officer's face.

"That's Command for you, sir" she said instead.

Greenash was just figuring out how to change the subject when another figure wearing a brown hooded robe shuffled over to them, took one look at their uniforms, then began declaiming in a deep and doom-laden voice.

"Repent Sinners!"

Both pilots sighed. A Child of Shiva, just the thing to brighten up anybody's day. Greenash stood up and looked the rake-thin zealot squarely in the eye.

"Get lost son before I report you to the cops," he said firmly, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice. The Child, who looked about twenty-five at a guess, seemed unconcerned about the threat and spoke again, loudly enough to cause everyone else on deck to look up.

"How dare you stand in the way of the Great Cleansing! The Destroyers will send you to burn in Hell if you resist their Great Plan!"

The Children of Shiva had risen to prominence after the sealing off of Capella, at first amongst the two hundred million refugees of that destroyed system, but later had spread their message throughout the colonised systems. The basic backbone to the semi-religious doggerel they spouted was that the Shivans were the unstoppable vanguard of some all-conquering God and that civilisation was destined for destruction. So the logic ran that the best thing to do was, metaphorically, lie back and wait for the Rapture – the faster to get to Heaven, of course – and that anybody trying to stop the Destroyers was on a fast track to Hell. This obviously made members of the military prime targets for these unhinged lunatics, although the Children had gotten into the habit of wandering around civilian-run installations promising eternal damnation to everyone in earshot.

The problem – as the psych outline that had been distributed to every man and woman in the GTVA had detailed at great and depressing length – was that the belief system of the Children of Shiva held great appeal to a generation who had watched an alien species decimate a whole fleet of the GTVA and then, as a sort of afterthought, destroy a star. It could seem at times that the Shivans were unstoppable, and to a certain type of mind it was better to just give up than stand and fight.

Anyone still in uniform was hoped to fall into that second camp.

Forty-two years ago the Vasudans had a similar problem which had manifested itself as the Hammer of Light, which had ended up with the better part of a PVN Battle Group at their disposal. So far the Children of Shiva had contented themselves with wailing and preaching, and the Security Council were doing their best to ensure it stayed that way. The last thing the still-rebuilding GTVA needed was another NTF-style rebellion.

All this passed through Greenash's mind one second before the Child pulled aside a fold of his robe and drew out a pistol and pointed it directly at the pilot's forehead.

Time slowed, and Greenash's mind focused on stupid little details. Like how the pistol was an ancient Subach-Innes model. The GTP 3-01A, in fact. He noticed how the barrel was pitted with rust. How the Child's hand was defiantly not shaking, which worried him more than he could say. It was one thing being held up at gunpoint by someone who was more scared of the gun they were holding than you were, it was quite another when you potential killer is afraid of nothing except a vengeful God.

"The Destroyers have instructed us to aid them in their mission to Cleanse the galaxy," the Child intoned in a way that made Greenash feel nostalgic about the mad-eyed ravings of a minute before. "I am only too happy to send you to Hell for them."

Greenash was unarmed, and like all pilots had the most basic of training in hand-to-hand combat. But, again like all pilots, his reflexes and decision-making skills were unsurpassed, plus growing up with his father in some of the roughest bars the galaxy had to offer meant he could handle himself should the need arise.

In one swift moment he kicked out with a standard-issue boot into the Child's shin. The man's arms waved about frantically as he struggled to regain his balance, and as they did so Marin appeared out of nowhere and twisted his gun hand around behind his back. The pistol dropped from his grip and skittered across the deck. Greenash then smashed the Child on the back of the head with his elbow and knocked the zealot to the ground. Between the pair of them, the two pilots pinned the brown-robed disciple to the ground, Marin twisting his arm painfully whenever he made an attempt to struggle free. Greenash looked up to see one of the crew of the _Trelawny_ run up to them.

"Get on the comm. with security. Tell 'em we need a squad to pick up this headcase."

The crewman saluted.

"Yessir," he said.

"Quick as you like sailor," Greenash quipped.

As the crewman dashed off to the flight deck, Greenash turned to look at Marin, who was busily twisting the Child's arm through an angle it was definitely not designed for. She flashed a quick grin before giving a vicious little jerk which quite put a stop to the struggling loon.

"I think we've given him something else more important to worry about than the Shivans, sir."


	3. Combat First Policy

"Alpha One, cover the _Dreadnought_!"

"Copy Command!"

Lieutenant Jimmy Grant - callsign Sundown - craned his neck around and spotted the second wave of Nephilim bombers that had gotten within missile range of the _Dreadnought_ without his noticing. His felt his chest constrict as the oddly asymmetrical Shivan ships launched a volley of heavy bombs.

"All fighters!" he yelled over the squadron communications circuit. "Take out Cancer wing! Go, now!"

Without waiting for a reply he engaged the afterburner of his Hercules Mark Two heavy assault fighter and put it on an intercept course for the bombs. The Herc powered across the vacuum of space at top speed, but it was no interceptor. If only the 85th Squadron hadn't been wiped out in the previous jag; twelve lightning quick Perseus fighters would make his job a thousand times easier...

The gunners on the destroyer had done well. The Nephilims had launched a salvo of eight bombs and the _Dreadnought_ had shot down five, but they couldn't get all of them and Grant urged more speed out of his lumbering fighter. But it wasn't enough.

He was just coming within weapons' range of the incoming bombs when the first one struck the hull of the _Dreadnought _and exploded. The trailing pair ploughed through the shockwave and impacted simultaneously three seconds later. The massive destroyer rocked in space, flames and debris trailing out a gaping hole that had been torn in her hull.

"This is the _Dreadnought. _That last salvo destroyed our engines! Alpha One, give us closer cover while we evaluate the damage."

"Copy, _Dreadnought_. All fighters close in to one thousand metres of the _Dreadnought_. Do it! Now! Now! Now!"

He finished off the last of the Nephilims with a twin swarm of Tornado missiles, feeling a twitch of satisfaction as the ugly black and red ship burst apart in a festive fireball, then turned his Herc back towards the crippled destroyer.

Grant was now forced into a desperate gamble to trade time for space. Reducing the defence perimeter to one klick would mean that each Terran fighter would have less space to cover, but would also leave the Shivans practically unharrassed until they got into missile range.

It started well. His Alpha wing gobbled up two new wings of Nahema bombers in double quick time. The pair of cruisers and the corvette that were galloping to the rescue were just a couple of minutes away. They could do this.

And then, then it all went wrong. His First Officer, Lieutenant Mick 'Bear' Gregan, leading Beta wing sang out a warning of two wings of deadly Mara fighters. The quick, powerful craft first let loose a swarm of missiles at the stranded _Dreadnought_, then boiled over the destroyer and fell upon Beta wing. As the massive Orion class destroyer signalled that her weapons subsystem had been knocked out the four Hercs were quickly overwhelmed and pulverised.

Grant looked on with horror as his most experienced pilot and nearly half of his remaining fighters were annihilated in a matter of moments. Beta wing had taken out two Maras before falling, but his squadron was now outnumbered three to one.

Relief was ninety seconds away.

He ordered two of his remaining pilots - Punk and Slider - to take care of the bombers and set the surviving pair - Longshot and Emperor - to follow him against the Maras. He quickly tucked in behind one of the alien fighters, watched the missile reticule gain a lock and blew it away with the last of his Tornadoes. Another thirty seconds ticked by and he began to think that they could hold on.

Another two wings of Maras jumped in, and that sealed the fate of his squadron and the _Dreadnought_. His comm system was overloaded as the anguished screams of his pilots filled the airwaves. His eyes became as wide as saucers as the Hercules fighters were dispatched almost as one, reduced to nothing more than fiery trails across the sky. Blank horror filled his mind and he never even noticed the shrill tone in his helmet as the Shivans got missile lock on his fighter and four of them fired simultaneously.

The volley of missiles sliced through his shields and reduced his hull to vapour. The last thing he saw before white light obliterated his vision was the majestic sight of the mighty _Dreadnought_ being blown in half, a thunderous blue shockwave reducing the flagship of the 12th Fleet to ashes and white-hot steel...

* * *

Commander Malian Fryatt watched the images being projected on the big screen before him impassively, only the ashtray crammed with cigarette butts betrayed his true feelings. In the seat next to him the Petty Officer running the simulation initiated the wake-up protocol that would bring the ten pilots of the 39th Squadron out of the program and back to the real world.

Commander Fryatt was the _Dreadnought's _ACO, or Air Control Officer, and he was in overall command of all fighters, bombers and miscellaneous support craft of the 12th Fleet's flagship. It was his job to organise and deploy the ship's air wing in peace and war and what he had just seen did not make him happy. If that simulation had been real he, and ten thousand other men and women, would be dead. This was the third time in two weeks they had run this exact simulation and Sundown had failed to defend the _Dreadnought_ all three times, and on two of those occasions the entire squadron had been wiped out.

It was getting problematic.

Sundown had joined the squadron not long after it had been rebuilt during the aftermath of Capella, and had risen to be its First Officer under Lieutenant Commander Kahfner, who had just been promoted to ACO on a destroyer in the 11th Fleet. Sunrise had probably assumed he was going to be given the squadron, and he had been given a nasty surprise last month when the posting order for one Lieutenant Commander Kristian Greenash had filtered down from command - New Commanding Officer of the 39th Heavy Assault Squadron. He and another officer had been transferred to the Tyrants, and it seemed nobody in the 39th was happy.

But Fryatt knew that they would just have to deal with it. The simple fact was in the ten pilots currently in the 39th only one - 'Bear' Gregan - had had any actual combat experience, and his personnel jacket contained several after-action reports and letters of censure from senior officers - plus some unproven but persistent rumours regarding an association with the NTF - that prevented him from attaining any actual command post. The rest of the squadron had all joined the GTVA post-Capella, and never fired a shot in anger. Of course they had all been rigorously trained, but as good as the computer simulations had become over the years, they were nothing like the real thing.

Fryatt had been with the 39th when they had been decimated during the war. He knew the feeling of combat, the scream of lasers, the thunder of missiles, the crackle of flak and the howl of beam weapons. He knew the fear which did its utmost to rob you of your courage and your sanity. He knew friends lost, to the Shivans, to the NTF and the crippling condition of shellshock. You had to have been in the shit, or you just didn't know. It couldn't be simulated, or replicated, reproduced, or faked. The horror of combat was something you felt in your blood and your heart, and while simulations could hone your reflexes or sharpen your eye, it couldn't test how you would cope in that ultimate crucible of death.

Which was why the GTVA liked to give command positions to that rarest of breeds, the veterans. There weren't many. Losses in the war had been staggering, and the drop out rate in the years following had been almost as severe. No matter how you looked at it, the Alliance had been soundly thrashed in 2367, and many of the surviving pilots and crew had decided to cash in their chips while they still could. This made experienced personnel worth their weight in gold, and he was astonished this Commander Greenash had been stuck at Subach-Innes for two years before Command had finally decided to give him a squadron.

_Must've pissed off the wrong person_, Fryatt mused as the pilots of the 39th filed out of the simulation suite and into the small briefing room where they would watch a replay of the mission and have their performance analysed and critiqued. Malian expected to do a great deal of criticising. Losing a virtual destroyer three times in a row was going to put a big black mark in Sundown's log book.

The pilots took their seats by rank, the senior officers sat at the front; the newly-minted Pilot Ensigns sat at the back like naughty schoolchildren. They didn't look very happy, but given that they had all just been virtually killed he didn't expect them to. He trailed into the briefing room with a handheld pad in his hand, and stood formally before the pilots. The atmosphere was poisonous; he could practically taste mutiny in the air. He reflected that Command had really screwed up with this squadron.

Sundown leaned back in his seat and tapped a slow rhythm out of the slim console before him. The Lieutenant's grandparents had been from Sol, from the Pan-Asian Federation to be precise, and the dark look he gave the ACO owed a great deal to that ancestry. Fryatt ignored it, and instead pressed a button on his pad, and the simulation replay began, displayed on the wall-sized screen behind him.

"Right then," he began, "listen up..."

* * *

Commander Fryatt sat in the office of Commander Famke Troy, the willowy First Officer of the _GTD Dreadnought_. The Commander had offered him a tumbler with a puddle of Serpentian whisky sloshing in it, and he'd accepted. He was exceptionally weary, for today had been a long and troubling day. The problem with the 39th Squadron did not look like it could be solved easily. It worried him that this situation had the potential to fester and rot at the heart of the flight deck, and it wasn't just the pilots who were in a foul mood. There were nearly fifty men and women in the 39th's ground crew and they were still all loyal to the two officers who had been with them since the reformation. They weren't happy either, which had manifested itself as sloppy maintenance work and launching times becoming longer and longer.

Both officers had been aware of the 39th's problem ever since it had reared its ugly head, and Fryatt was updating the First Officer on today's latest calamities. When he finished Troy poured a measure of whisky for herself and sat down behind her desk across from the ACO.

"Loyalty is all well and good," she said. "But I want those pilots following orders no matter who gives them. This is the GTVA, not some damned social club!"

"This isn't the first time the 'Combat First' policy has caused problems," Fryatt said quietly. "But I've never read about a case where it's been this acute."

"So we should have given the post to Lieutenant Grant then?"

"No." Fryatt's response was firm, and immediate. "Combat experience or not, he just isn't good enough to lead a squadron against the Shivans. In another fleet, nearer the core systems, he probably would not have even made First Officer. He's an exceptional pilot, but his decision making skills, tactical awareness and overall command qualities just aren't up to it." He took another swig of whisky. "I hate to say it. I mean I served with him for six years, we were friends until I got posted to Nankam Aero."

He paused for a second, unsure, conflicted.

"The hell of it, I can't really blame them for feeling like this. Sundown's been in the squadron since after Capella. That's ten years' service, and I hate to think this is as high as he'll get if he wants to fly. I suppose it just doesn't seem fair."

"I'm not worried about fair," Troy said coldly. "My first concern and the concern of the Captain is the combat effectiveness of this ship and her crew."

"Hmm. You know, Troy, I can see a time where we'll have to disband the squadron if Greenash can't whip them back into line."

"That's a worst case scenario, Mal. We want to avoid that."

"There's an understatement," Fryatt muttered. Troy gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"How much does Greenash know about the situation?"

"_Nada_. We haven't told him anything, and Command knows nothing about it."

"Right. Well, we can fill him in after Admiral Adams has briefed him."

"It'll be one hell of a shock."

Troy smiled grimly.

"He fought in the war, Mal. He'll be used to shocks by now." The First Officer leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes thoughtfully. "What do you know about Greenash?" she asked finally.

"I've read his file, hell of a record in the war, and I'd heard about his rep from when he taught at OCS pilot school. Top notch flier, I can't believe it took him ten years to get a squadron, especially since Combat First was introduced."

"Yes, I've heard Captain Mull told me he talked to Old Petrarch about this, turns out Greenash's file doesn't tell the whole story. There's stuff between the lines, after Capella in fact…"

"What? The man's in the Legion of Honour. I was damn surprised he didn't get a squadron right after we sealed off Capella."

"This was after the mission to evacuate 3rd Fleet HQ," Troy took a deep breath. "Okay, Mal, this is strictly off the record, but when Greenash became the only survivor of the 70th, back on the _Aquitaine_ talk started of LMF."

"Shit," Fryatt winced. He took another slug of whisky while he tried to think of the repercussions of a pilot receiving the dreaded accusation of Lack of Moral Fibre. "Anything ever come of it?" he asked.

"It took him ten years to get a squadron at the far side of the galaxy, what do you think?"

Fryatt raised his glass in acknowledgement, tossed back the last of the whisky and excused himself from the office. He had work to do.


	4. The Admiral's Office

Lieutenant Commander Kristian Greenash stood at perfect attention in the luxurious office of Rear Admiral Joleon Adams. Eleven years in the GTVA had given him a priceless ability to be able to read flag officers and ascertain within seconds just how much of a stickler for protocol they were. The instant the Admiral's office door had slid aside to reveal the vast, perfectly-appointed space within and the powerful dark-skinned Adams sat rigidly behind his massive desk, Greenash had known how to handle this. Perfect salute, stand at attention in the pose straight out of the manual, the total respect for the chain of command, he'd done it all without fail. Adams was obviously keen to keep a tight rein on discipline, given how far they were from the core systems.

As he had learnt in his first week as a green cadet pilot, the thing to do was keep your eyes on a point half a meter left and double that above the senior officer's head. That and say "Yes, sir," a lot.

This time, the arrangement favoured the pilot, since he got to stare out of the giant window that took up one whole wall of the Admiral's office and gave him a panoramic view of the 1st Battle Squadron (the first of four) of the 12th Fleet at anchor all around them. There were the three stocky Leviathan cruisers _Bacchante, Laertes _and _Aboukir_. The two fast attack Fenris cruisers _Valiant _and _Vanquish _were parked alongside a rare bird indeed, one of the few Anti-Fighter Aeolus cruisers left following the war - the _Stalwart_. Then there were the 1st's two corvettes - the _Tomkin _and the _Deimos_, the latter the first ship of her class, full of the teething problems that maiden boats always experienced.

And finally, his ship, his home for the next four years, if all went to plan, the Orion class destroyer, the _GTD Dreadnought_, the flagship of the 12th Fleet, two kilometres of quick death to all who challenged her. Even from the office high up on the _Ithaca_, the Arcadia class installation that served as the 12th Fleet's HQ, she looked fine, and powerful, and Greenash recalled an incident as a child during the Reconstruction, when the _Bastion_ had sailed majestically by his father's freighter. He remembered the sense of awe he had felt as that mighty bulk had seemed to fill the sky, and had taken many minutes to pass by. He had seen bigger ships since then, the _Colossus_, the _Aquitaine_, the Shivan Sathanas juggernauts, but the ship in his memory was much larger than these giants, and it had captured his imagination, and his heart, ever since and not let go.

Also of the 1st Battle Squadron, along with the nine ships parked at the _Ithaca_, there was one other Leviathan cruiser - the _Crusader_ - off escorting a convoy to the 11th Fleet HQ in Luyten. Wolf 359 was a largely insignificant red dwarf star a very long way from the central systems, and as such was considered at low risk of attack, hence its defences being as they were. There were eight squadrons of fighters and bombers on the _Dreadnought_, another two fighter units on the _Ithaca_, and a pair of Mjolnir Remote Beam Cannons (RBCs) on guard at the jump node leading to the Luyten system. The only significant things about Wolf 359 were the civilian-run Lowell Shipyards owned and operated by Dynamic Metamer, the one inhabitable planet, and the not insignificant fact that at a distance of 7.8 light years, it was one of the nearest stars to the lost system of Sol. In fact the GTVA had stationed a permanent monitoring crew on the _Ithaca_ to listen for any transmissions from the humanity's isolated home world.

There had been nothing but the infinite hiss of the universe for forty-two years, and considering that it should have taken only eight for any transmissions from Sol to reach them, the continued silence was profoundly disturbing. The re-opening of the Delta Serpentis - Sol jump node - using technology gleaned from Ancients' Knossos portal in Gamma Draconis - had so far been unsuccessful. The one attempt at opening the node had resulted in the destruction of a science cruiser and the Alliance-constructed jump portal. Still the human race was denied their home world.

The total population of Wolf 359, civilian and military, was barely two million, and given how far they were from the front, the population of shipyard workers and the vast network of support staff were very lucky to have a destroyer in their system, even if it was a fifty-five year old hulk that was definitely showing her age.

But she had been there since the Reconstruction, and for the people of Wolf 359, she was all they had.

As Admiral Adams droned on about responsibility and duty to the Fleet and to the GTVA, Greenash let it wash over him and his eyes wandered around the office. There were the little touches here and there which told of the history of the Admiral's career, and other grander flourishes which illustrated the battle record of the 12th Fleet. Maverick knew a bit about that, it was mostly a litany of disaster. There had been some minor successes in the 14-Year War against the Vasudans, but once again, because of the remoteness of the system the Fleet had been mainly used as reinforcements, although there was one notable engagement in Beta Aquilae during Operation Thunderbolt supporting the shattered remnants of the 4th (Vega) and 5th (Beta Aquilae) Fleets.

Then the Great War had begun, and like every other fleet they had been sent to the front line, hurled against the Shivans in an bid to stop their relentless march through Terran space, and annihilated, in their case at Laramis, along with the 10th (Laramis) Fleet. The 12th had lost nearly two-thirds of their cruisers and destroyers, and three-quarters of the fighter/bomber complement. What was left of the Fleet was licking its wounds in Wolf 359 - which never seen so much as a scout patrol of the Shivan fleet - when the Great War had ended, and of course come the Reconstruction, they were left at the bottom of the list, sucking hind tit.

The Second Shivan Incursion in 2367 had gone better for the 12th Fleet, in that it hadn't been wiped out. In fact, by the time it had gotten to Vega to assist in the evacuation of the adjacent Capella system, there had been only time to launch the fighters on a few sorties, during which - like many other squadrons - they had suffered fairly serious losses pinning the Shivans in that doomed system. The 12th had lost only a pair of Leviathans assisting refugee convoys when Capella went supernova, and about thirty fighters, nothing compared to the 3rd (Capella) Fleet, which had suffered almost total losses, or the 4th and 6th (Epsilon Pegasi) Fleets, or the 13th Vasudan Battle Group out of Deneb, all of which had taken heavy losses.

The Shivans had been stopped twice, but both times at the cost of millions of lives, and nobody was under any illusions as to who had been the victors and who had been the losers, especially in '67. It had taken a last, desperate roll of the dice to stop them ten years ago; they would surely not get another miracle the next time the Destroyers came.

The Admiral's office was decorated with paintings of the Fleet in transit, and a plaque on one wall detailing the 12th's Battle Honours. Scattered amongst these were other plaques that were more personal to the Admiral, on his desk was a scale model of the Hecate destroyer _Agamemnon_, which had been his last command before his promotion to Flag Officer, the Squadron crest of his last fighter command, and of his first posting. On the wall alongside his drinks cabinet was a framed picture of the Admiral shaking hands with Grand Admiral Jukin Hrenforth, the head of the GTVA Security Council, the most senior military figure in the Alliance, taking on the occasion of his taking command of the 12th. There was nothing startling, except for the small picture next to the model _Agamemnon_, it was a human figure Greenash couldn't quite make out.

The Admiral now had a pad out on his desk. Like many subordinates, Maverick had mastered the art of reading documents upside down on his superior's desk, and noticed Adams was now reviewing his career, and he decided now was a good time to pay attention, in case there were questions.

"So Commander, signed up with the fleet in '63, graduated third in your class from OCS '65. First posting with the 81st on the _Aquitaine _in Capella. Promoted to J.G. '67, nine months into the Rebellion."

"Heavy losses, Sir."

"Yes, I'm sure. Transferred to the 64th Ravens 2nd of August." The Admiral looked up with a raised eyebrow. Greenash interpreted the gesture correctly.

"Three days before the Incursion, yes Sir."

"Secured Gamma Draconis and awarded the Allied Defence Citation. Piloted in the first patrol in the nebula. That was the flight that found the _Trinity_?"

Greenash nodded.

"Participated in the destruction of the _Ravana_ and awarded the DFC. Fought in Epsilon Pegasi, and got to watch the _Colossus_ wipe out the NTF 6th Fleet, for which you were given the Epsilon Pegasi Liberation Medal and bumped up to Lieutenant, and made 64th's First Officer."

Admiral Adams tapped the pad and the next page scrolled up. Greenash longed for a cigarette.

"You were back in the nebula for the end of the Rebellion, and received the NTF Victory Star for the eighteen months in action. Assisted in the exploration of the nebula on the _Aquitaine_, racked up thirty-seven kills while you were in there. Engaged in the second retreat from the nebula and posted to defend Capella when the _Sathanas_ came through the Knossos. Received your second DFC for assisting in the destruction on the _SCv Devra_, and then awarded the Nebula Victory Star after being injured in the following action."

"Yes Sir, I was on a medical ship during the third nebular retreat."

"Ah, yes. They transferred you to the 70th Blue Lions in time for the evacuation of Capella, where you received the Meritorious Unit Commendation and were inducted into the GTVA Legion of Honour in successive sorties, along with rest of the 70th, and you participated in the last mission before Capella went 'nova." Admiral Adams tailed off.

"Yes, Sir."

"Where you were the last ship to arrive in Epsilon Pegasi and the only survivor of the 70th Blue Lions." Greenash stiffened involuntarily.

"Yes, Sir."

"May I ask how you were so fortunate?"

"Iceman, uh, I mean Lieutenant Commander Wexer, ordered me to cover the _GTM Herophilus_ and her convoy. We had lost four pilots in the previous sortie escorting the _Bastion_ to the Vega node, and by the time the _Herophilus'_ convoy arrived on the scene we had lost another three. We were spread so thin Commander Wexer was giving us whole convoys to cover on our own. Convoy AT-563 was at the Epsilon Pegasi node just as Capella blew, it was just luck Sir. It could have been any other pilot in the squadron, it just happened to be me."

Adams stared at him, his dark eyes watching Maverick for a reaction. There was one, but it was slight. Greenash was concentrating; now was not a good time for a flashback. The rainbow sheen shimmered in his eye for a second, then was gone.

"You were wounded in the explosion and picked up by the _Aquitaine _in Epsilon Pegasi."

"Yes Sir. I was blinded in my right eye by the blast."

"Yes. Another three months on a medical ship while you got an artificial replacement, then transfer to OCS pilot school as an instructor for five years. It says here your classes had a seventy percent pass rate during your tenure. Ten percent above average, very impressive."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Then three years as First Officer with the 5th Squadron in Beta Aquilae." The Admiral paused as a memory surfaced suddenly. "5th Squadron… on the _Avignon_, yes?"

"Yes Sir."

"So you were posted there in '74?"

"During the accidental EM detonation on the hangar deck, yes sir."

"Unfortunate," the Admiral offered.

_Unfortunate? Five hundred dead, the pilots and ground crew of six whole squadrons wiped out when the atmospheric containment was knocked out. You could call it unfortunate yes, although I think disaster would do just as well. Good men and women, many of who had survived the hell of '67, wiped out because some new tech forgot to activate the safeties on an EM weapon before he opened up the reactor panel for routine bloody maintenance._

_I don't think we're going to get on very well, Admiral._

"Yes Sir."

The Admiral paused and gazed at his newest squadron leader. Greenash continued to steadfastly avoid to look his superior in the eye. Adams cleared his throat and looked back down at the file.

"So, after that two years posted to Subach-Innes as Fleet Liason. And finally last month a posting here and an increase in rank to Lieutenant Commander." Adams looked up again. "That's quite a career, pilot."

"Yes Sir."

"I like to believe, however, that a man cannot be judged by actions in a file. There are often extenuating circumstances behind the official language, stories behind the story if you like. I do not expect any pilot to live off past victories or past failures, instead I only expect you to start anew with the 12th Fleet and write a battle record that stands on its own."

"Sir?'

"Do not be fooled into thinking that just because we are a long way from the core systems that you cannot write a battle record to proud of, and do not think for one second that I do not expect all my crews to live up to a standard that will enable you to achieve that record."

"Aye, Sir. It never crossed my mind to do anything else."

"Very well. Report to the _Dreadnought_. Dismissed."

"Aye, Sir." Greenash saluted and marched stiffly out of the office.

Flag Officers were a part of life, good, bad or plain indifferent. But why did they always have to leave you with the feeling you were a green Cadet being chewed up and spat out? He shook his head and walked down the corridor to the elevator, and it was only then he began to feel angry about the casual dismissal of his career. As far as he could remember, Admiral Adams had spent _his_ career avoiding conflict like the plague, who was he to dismiss a career of high achievement and sterling accomplishments?

_Well_, he thought as the elevator began moving, unnerving him slightly by squeaking as it ran on supposedly frictionless runners. _I'll show him. Give me some good pilots and a crack ground crew and I'll give him a battle record that'll make him piss himself with joy_.


	5. First Impressions

Collyns, the white-coated steward in the dim wardroom of the _GTD Dreadnought,_ knew instinctively that he had better be quick serving the scowling officer stood on the other side of the bar. His highly developed instinct, honed by years of serving beverages and food on warships and installations across the inhabited systems, was telling him this pilot moodily waiting for a double whisky was not in the mood for cheery banter or even perfunctory pleasantries. So Collyns poured the drink, accepted the payment and got back to polishing glasses with a cloth.

He definitely wasn't going to ask for a tip.

Sundown took his drink back to a badly-lit booth in the far corner of the wardroom, where his wing leaders were also sat nursing one strong drink apiece. He took a seat next to the burly figure of Bear, appeared to contemplate his drink for a second, then knocked half of it back in one furious slug. He grimaced; the mass-produced whisky from Wolf 359's biggest - and only - distillery wasn't exactly what you would call smooth. The stuff was made to only one standard - its cheapness. Frontier citizens of the GTVA weren't all that concerned with quality, all they were interested in was something to numb the endless monotony of living and working in the backside of the galaxy.

The four pilots were varying right now between glumness and surliness. After last month's bitter blow of the announcement of their new squadron leader, and the series of simulated exercises culminating in this morning's disaster and shameful dressing down, they were suffering from a toxic mixture of humiliation and rage, not helped by the many measures of execrable liquor they were consuming at an ill-conceived pace.

The atmosphere was thick as the four officers struggled to put into words what they were all feeling. Sundown watched the other three, all of them were glaring at their drinks, studiously avoiding eye-contact with their soon to be ex-commanding officer.

"Okay," he began. "I'll say it."

"Say what?" Bear growled.

"This whole thing stinks. I mean, _absolutely_ stinks." Frustration welled up inside of him, a sensation he hadn't really felt since he had climbed into his first training kite and found out he wasn't utterly perfect at flying. He remembered it had taken him a week to grasp the basics of manoeuvring, and every minute had been a battle to stop the bile rising at his own perceived incompetence. That same feeling now rendered him at a loss for words.

His trainer had always said his temper would get him trouble. That and three and a half whiskies.

"We've all got it bad Jimmy," Bear countered, trying and failing to sound anything but livid.

"They don't give a shit about us, stuck at the far end of the fucking galaxy, treat us like fucking dirt. I mean, Goddammit, have you heard about the guy they've sent in?"

He received three grunts in the negative.

"LMF. I mean jus' 'cos we're shoved out here they think it's okay to give us a fuckin' coward for a CO. They don't care. They jus' don't _care_." He knocked back the last of his drink and slammed the glass back down on the table, then looked up at one of the junior officers sat opposite him. "Your round Buckeye."

Lieutenant Junior Grade Hanna 'Buckeye' Tomovski stood up and strode off to the bar. The remaining JG made a badly-concealed attempt to catch a glimpse at her firm backside, before returning his focus to his fuming commanders.

"Well hell, skipper, at least you still get command of a wing. Me and Buckeye don't even get that. Bumped down to the fuckin' ranks," concluded Lee 'Longshot' Woodely with a grumble. "I've only had Gamma six weeks."

"Big deal," Sundown sneered. "You lose a wing, I've lost a fuckin' _squadron_."

"Aye, sir," Longshot offered, biting his tongue. He could wait.

* * *

Buckeye finished paying for her drinks and was about to take them back over to her fellow pilots when the doors opened and a female pilot walked in. This was obviously not unusual, but what was unusual was the squadron patch on her left arm. The design was a fairly blunt one: a flaming fist crushing a Shivan ship into oblivion against a backdrop of the _Dreadnought_ in battle. Beneath that aggressive image was the motto 'Oderint Dum Metuant XXXIX'. So this new arrival was the other replacement in the Tyrants, and by extension the one who had taken Buckeye's wing from her.

The nametag read Marin.

Hanna was not inclined to be friendly to this new pilot, who ignored Buckeye and hopped onto a barstool, ordering a pint of Luyten's from the steward. After a few awkward moments she became aware of the junior officer staring at her. Marin turned her head slowly to meet the gaze, spent half a second to take in the pip and a half designating Lieutenant J.G., and another half second to register that the look was one of alcohol-fuelled hostility.

"Anything I can help you with, _Lef_-tenant?" she asked, her clipped Aquilae accent pronouncing the rank in that peculiar manner and asserting her seniority.

"No, ma'am."

"Carry on, pilot."

"Ma'am," Buckeye nodded curtly, and navigated the tray back to her squad mates. Three pairs of eyes had fixed on her little conversation with the new flygirl.

"Who was that?" Longshot asked once Buckeye had distributed the drinks and sat down.

"That," Sundown announced. "Is Lieutenant Jeni Marin, formerly of the 357th Hydras outta Aquilae, and the new leader of Gamma wing."

"_My _wing," Buckeye spat.

"Time to introduce myself," Sundown muttered. The other three gave him a look. Drunk and angry as they were, nobody thought that trying to be diplomatic was going to possible after five or six whiskies.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Bear asked.

"I'm jus' bein' friendly, like."

Sundown pushed himself to his feet, straightened his tan off-duty shirt and made his way to the bar with just a hint of unsteadiness. The three left behind felt themselves tense; they could see where this was going, and they all assumed positions that would enable them to spring into action at a moment's notice.

Jimmy Grant was not known for his even temperament.

* * *

Swordfish was lighting up a cigarette when she was aware of another pilot leaning on the bar next to her. Her eyes flickered sideways; otherwise she gave no outward sign that she even noticed her new friend. However her senses heightened instinctively when she caught the overpowering alcoholic fumes coming off the other pilot. Born and raised in a rich Aquilae family, and stationed in the Alliance's home system for most of her career she may have been, but that didn't mean she was totally naïve. Subtly she shifted her posture to send out the signal she really didn't want to be talking to a drunk after hours cooped up in a rusty transport.

However, the lieutenant stood next to her was far to drunk to pick up something so nuanced as body language. Instead, he grinned drunkenly and stuck out a hand in welcome.

"Hi there, Jimmy Grant, 39th Tyrants. You can call me Sundown."

The glaringly false bonhomie in Grant's voice and posture set Swordfish immediately on edge. This man stood next to her was the very man who had just lost command of his squadron, and that never made a pilot particularly happy. There was no telling how he would react. Although the discipline Fleet instilled died hard in all of them, she was unsure as to how much the lake of alcohol Grant must have been drinking from could have made him ignore all that.

On the other hand, she _had_ read the personnel files before she had come out here, and she knew for a fact that she outranked Grant on the Navy List by exactly four months, so there was a certain amount of leeway there in what she was allowed to say.

She became aware that Grant had had his hand hanging in the air for several seconds. Since she felt compelled to keep the peace here - and there was no call to be a twat - she took it and shook firmly.

"Well, _Sundown_;_ Lef_-tenant Jeni Marin," she offered, still careful to stress more than usual her pronunciation of the rank.

Silence hung awkwardly for a moment. In Swordfish's case it was because she was thinking how to keep the conversation on the rails; in Sundown's it was because he was apparently having difficulty synchronising his brain and his tongue all of a sudden.

"So!"

More seconds passed.

"Sooo, _Lef_-tenant," Sundown tried, not quite keeping the sneer out of his voice. "Welcome to the 12th Fleet."

Swordfish had already received her official greeting from Commander Fryatt when she had boarded the _Dreadnought_ several hours ago, this drunken ramble was slightly less than welcome.

"Thanks," she replied levelly.

"I know its not quite the core systems out here, but I'm sure you'll fit in just _perfectly_. We got culture, style, classy people. Maybe not what you're used to but I'm sure you won't mind _slumming_ it with the backwater folk."

"Okay," Swordfish wasn't going to let this go any further; it was time to pull rank. "I think you've had enough Pilot. How about you hit the rack and we can talk some more on duty?"

It wasn't much of a slight, but it was enough to cause the colour to rise in Sundown's face. His body tensed and Swordfish slid off her seat, putting every ounce of authority into her stance that she could muster. Sundown had a full foot in height over her, but that had never been a problem before with her subordinates, and she wasn't about to start now. She glared upwards and _dared_ Sundown to continue.

"Okay Jimmy, I think its time we left."

It took a lot to get Bear Gregan drunk. He was a big man, and it was a brave pilot indeed who tried to drink him under the table. He had watched his friend make a dick of himself, and he wasn't prepared to watch him wind up with a court-martial over this while he was still sober enough to intervene. He put one arm around Sundown's shoulders and tactfully began steering him away. Over the top of Jimmy's head he motioned to Buckeye and Longshot that it was time to make tracks.

"Sorry to bother you Ma'am," he said formally.

"No problem," Swordfish replied icily, not giving an inch.

"Right Jimmy," Bear announced. "Time we was going." Supporting Sundown more than his friend realised Bear led the group out of the wardroom, and just like that everything was back to normal.

Swordfish subsided, suddenly aware she was the centre of attention and that a lot of pilots and officers were focussing on that little scene. She wasn't embarrassed as such, but it did occur to her that this was not a fabulous first impression to make on a new posting. With that in mind she finished her drink in one swift go, placed the glass on the bar and walked out, doing her best not to look rattled, and succeeding nicely.

* * *

Collyns the steward took the empty glass.

_Looks like this could be interesting_.


End file.
